Welcome Stranger
by rese
Summary: Laurie walks the fine line between escape and desire. slash Fred/Laurie
1. The Mistake

**Welcome Stranger**

_A/N: entirely inspired by Elisabeth Harker's 'Tavern'. My god, this pairing just gripped me and this spilled itself out. Verse and title belong to Megan Washington – it seemed to fit. Characters are of course, L.M.A's._

**But this is just a business, and I don't feel any pain**

**Just as long as no one says your name.**

He feels the bite of brick against his skull, his hair catching on the tiny fragmented texture of concrete. His tongue traces Fred's tongue and it's like nothing he's ever experienced. The shorter man has his unbuttoned collar gripped tightly in his fists as he presses Laurie to the wall. It's every inch the passion he's desired so long, only Fred doesn't wear her face or taste like bread and honey.

There's a moan deep inside of him that tries to escape but he swallows it whole. His lips feel raw as they press and pry and part with Fred's. He won't move them to the smooth paleness of the man's neck. He simply grips Fred closer, his hands firmly on his hips, the texture of wool, rough and dyed imbedded, sinking deeper into his skin.

He thinks of unbuttoning his trousers. Of Fred's mouth dropping lower. Laurie thinks of a great deal of things but says nothing. There's something to all of this, something that might be too much and so he holds Fred closer, trying to consume everything this kiss can give him.

A part of him revels in knowing she would hate all of this. The idea of anyone touching him this way has always turned her as stiff as stone. He used to think it was because she loved him. Laurie can recall her frowns without a second thought, even as Fred's fingers press into the skin of his jaw. The man is persistent in ways she could never be.

She might even hate him for it. Laurie pushes his hips roughly against Fred's, listening for the man's responding groan above the roar of liquor between his senses. Everything is so clear to him now. He can't tell if he's still standing, or if the brick wall of the laneway is holding him up but he is thinking clearer than he ever has before.

It is silent in the strange dark London laneway and the two never speak. Laurie can only hear the sudden intake and exhale of breath, the soft wet sound of two pairs of lips, the crumple of linen and scratch of wool. There is the scuffed shuffle of their feet against the dirt as they fight each other, bodies pushing for dominance.

Fred's quaint little bottle lies in pieces at the opening of the alley and Laurie languidly thinks that it must have made some noise, shown some sign that two living souls were waking, killing themselves in this haze.

He likes the London fog.

Fred's hands never travel lower than his shoulders and Laurie wonders if he should feel guilty for pressing his hands into the other man's trouser pockets. Fred doesn't seem to mind though and he leans into the touch. Just another way he is everything he will never get from her.

He's destroying everything with this kiss, he knows it best now that his jaw aches, that he can't keep his eyes open long enough to look into the late night and see Fred's equally glazed half-lidded gaze. Besides, it would make this all too real and tonight – tonight he has decided is about feeling things he was never allowed to feel before.

Something in his chest shudders hard and he leans back, his head falling against the brick once more. He blinks lazily now and folds his hands to the shape of Fred's thighs. Fred's mouth is hot, like a furnace, like the burning of hell behind those iron gates. Laurie can't compare the Englishman's lips to hers for he has never tasted, never touched.

Weakness; that is what it is. It settles across his limbs, blankets his mind in a way the liquor never could. Fred is stretching over his body, keeping his fumbling lips to his. Was the man always so nervous? Laurie notices now how the dark-haired man's hands shake between the material of his jacket and waistcoat. He wonders when it began. If it is a sign.

He is a damn fool to look for signs. Every moment he thinks he has this beaten, has himself pinned to a tree of regret where the roots of change can take hold, he is a damn fool. Laurie knows well how to make mistakes and the weight of them.

This will feel so much heavier later in the morning.

Laurie removes his hands from Fred's pockets and recaptures his lips, his cheeks twitching with some Herculean effort to suppress the beat of his true heart. If he acts quick enough it will seem like a dream.

The world continues to tip and fall with his every movement and he knows the alcohol that courses through his veins will win. He's on its side after all, the team captain, he thinks as he manoeuvres them both so that Fred is now pressed against the wall.

Into the wall.

It feels a little like shaking down a man for coins. He's done that before.

Fred's skin is like warm brandy. It burns him just a little. Only a little less than his burning hot mouth. Laurie's hands move to cup the shorter man's face. He cradles those soft English cheeks, feels the hard length of him between his legs and thinks yes, he can do this. It is simple enough to shut his eyes and pretend that all this hurt between them will be gone come morning.

He can feel Fred's fingers on his trouser-button.


	2. The Morning After

**So, the way that these things go often finds me singing in my pillow.  
And the way that these things are often finds me crying in the car.**

He stumbles up the stairs, groping for the rail in the dark. No lamp is lit at this ungodly hour of the morning and for a moment Laurie stops to feel around his neck for his tie. It's gone and he shrugs. Ties come and go, he considers, climbing the last of the impossible stairs and he squints into the dark for the brass numbers of his room.

302. He just makes it out in the unlit corridor and he plunges a hand in his pocket for the key before remembering he keeps it in the seamed pocket inside his waistcoat. He feels a little like laughing at himself and so he does. No one is there to hear him in the hallway.

The lock clicks and he pushes the door open, half-falling into the room. It's a little more visible with the light coming in from the city-lit fog outside through the windows. He doesn't bother with curtains.

Laurie drops the key on his table and trudges further into the room for the water closet. He pulls the pathetic door open and opens one eye to look for the pot. Better to aim now than add further regret to the morning's tab, he thinks, pulling his trousers down.

He thinks of Fred Vaughn's hands and his curious tongue. He chuckles, just once to himself as relief washes through him and the sound of his bladder fills the cramped space.

So much for a dignified time in London.

When he finishes he pulls up his drawers but kicks his trousers off, towards the table, shutting the closet door behind him. They get stuck around his ankles, his shoes doing their best to hinder his efforts. It's harder than he anticipated so he bends over and with one hand undoes the neatly tied laces of the smart black shoes he'd bought in New York once.

Soon enough everything starts to come undone and Laurie leaves his clothes in the middle of the room, barely in a pile as he makes his way to bed.

He can't wait to fall onto it, feel the coolness of his sheets against his spinning head and dream a dreamless end to this night. It's why he drinks. The bed is in front of him now and he peels his shirt off, the last of the articles to touch the ground before he is horizontal and wishing he could remain on his stomach.

Laurie turns slowly, ever mindful that he could be sick at any moment. Finally on his back with one sheet thrown ridiculously over him he takes a moment to think of Fred again.

That stupid sweater-vest, he thinks and closes his eyes.

_He sat with Beth's letter in his hands. It was about _her _and it wasn't well-written but it was filled with secret hopes and mutual understanding and just the right tone of desperation that it spoke volumes to him. Desperation was the only language he spoke these days._

_Fred sat opposite him, a posy of flowers on the sideboard behind him. He'd bought them for Amy but they lay forgotten._

_Sometimes, Laurie couldn't believe his luck. Running into Fred Vaughn outside the post had been sheer providence. He'd never needed a friend like he had just then and Fred had taken him without a word to his place._

"_I just don't understand how come she doesn't just write?"_

"_It's something that the sister does though, isn't it?"_

_Laurie didn't answer him, just thumbed the paper between his hands. He knew Beth's words were nothing in a world where _she_ wouldn't even write a single word to him. She! A writer!_

"_Do you want to get a drink?" Laurie asked Fred, looking up into the man's familiar eyes. Fred hadn't failed at pulling through for him yet. He also knew he wouldn't think he meant just one._

"_Sure."_

_He watched as Fred got up and went about dressing himself for public. His sweater-vests were still as ugly as ever and Laurie smirked. He started to feel a little better about it all. He folded the letter without looking at it again, keeping his eyes on his shorter friend who shared a shy sort of smile as he retied his knot and tucked it under the woollen sweater._

"_Let's get out of here then." Laurie dropped the letter and didn't think twice._

He wakes up to an eyeball of bright light that he dimly recognises is the sun. Laurie groans and rolls over to his side, throwing his sheet over his head as though that will solve the problem.

He's freezing.

"Such an idiot," he mumbles to himself and pulls back the sheet to fall out of bed. The water closet seems almost too far in his state but he makes it, only tripping on his trousers and jacket coat en route.

He braces himself on the door frame and thinks of her. If she'd come with him so much would be different. It's a useless, tragic fantasy and he only allows it in bursts on mornings such as these. It's the strangest thing though; he can't remember what shape her hands are, or the exact right colour of her hair and eyes.

Finished, he pulls his drawers back around his hips, shuts the door again and finds the sink in the corner. It's like ice on his already frozen hands but it shocks him into a horrid reality that he really never should have left. He cups some water and throws it into his face, scrubbing hard at his cheeks and eyes, at his neck as memories flood his thoughts.

"Oh, God." He swears and for once is glad she isn't there to hear it.

Fred's mouth and a similar exclamation spring to mind and he shuts his eyes to blot it all out.

"What a mistake." It's The Mistake of his life. His hands are shaking more than slightly now as he crosses the room and considers if he should find some clothes and run down to catch a cab to Fred's side of London.

That's what it will be now, he knows. After this it will be his side, and Fred's side and he won't even be thrown in chance's way to meet his old friend. Friend – was that even right to call him now?

Laurie ran his hands over his face again and sat in the single chair by his table.

He knows Fred. The man won't ever want to see him again. He's going to marry Amy and that will be that. This Mistake won't ever be mentioned again.

What in heaven's name possessed them both last night?

The feeling swells over him, just for a second and it feels like he's back there, with warm wide hands on his body and a burning mouth. It devours him. Everything he feels just then belongs to Fred again and there is something so frighteningly freeing about that. It scares him how light and sick he can feel at once.

Then he realises why he did it all. That letter, thinking of her with every single breath. He'd been swallowed up by her through a piece of paper and there was an escape. Fred had given him the most bashful smiles as they'd left that pub. His sweater-vests were so stupid. His little bottle of wine on the cobblestones.

There are reasons and answers all wrapped up in this enormous Mistake.

Laurie moves his arms to rest against the table and he stares hard at the door. He can't see Fred, but the panic has passed. He hasn't been able to seriously recall her in twelve hours and though he knows she is entirely to blame for his part, he feels like there is something he has for himself now. A piece of escape.

_Lips tight and powerful. A throat. The universe squeezed into a point, one second in time where he can't feel anything but pure bliss. He is released from his prison of self-torture and pity and is burying himself in Fred. He is gone but he loves her._

_His teeth are grinding together as the base of his skull smacks against the brick. "Jo!"_

He called her name. Laurie's head sinks into his hands and he feels like this headache hasn't even begun. So in his escape she is still there, like the backdrop to a play.

But it's still something, he tells himself, trying to find any reason to last night. Laurie thinks of Amy and how she will lie on her wedding night, dreaming of fat little rich babies and how the edge of Fred's eyes will wrinkle, if he manages to come at all.

Laurie pulls himself back in his chair, one hand rapping some unknown rhythm against the wooden tabletop as he returns to staring at the door. It's so easy to think of Fred now that he hasn't even tried to replace her in his mind.

This could work, he thinks, concentrating on the memory of Fred's short, dirty fingernails, the scar from their first game of football on his left ear.

It's not a cure, but it's treating the symptoms.


	3. The Meeting

**All the years of being broke**

**And all the spit and all the smoke**

**And all the fucking, all the drugs**

**All the love was not enough**

**You take my guts, I'll take the car**

**Welcome, stranger - here you are!  
Never seen your face before.  
Welcome, stranger!  
Nice to meet you.**

Laurie sees him again.

It's not too many years but it's enough. Fred's moustache is as clean and crisp as ever and Laurie's upper lip still burns, tingles with the memory of sensation.

"Hullo," Laurie extends his hand and as expected Fred remains tight-lipped and stiff. He does not take the proffered hand and rocks just once on his heels. Stationary, Laurie thinks. Stuck.

"How do you do, old chap?"

Laurie turns his black eyes onto a gleaming head of gold that has only ever been known to him as Amy March. He supposes he shan't ever call her by that name again.

"Well enough I suppose." He puts just enough leer into that to send Amy's slight smile into an even slighter frown. She takes his hand before he can drop it back to his side and he is reminded of her taller sister's grip. She never would have worn gloves, though.

They are both a welcomed reminder in his life why it isn't wise to keep close to anyone.

"They ask after you in Orchard House." Amy's reminder is none-too-gentle. He doesn't remember is she always made him bristle so, but he takes her other arm, careful to meet Fred's blank expression over her sweet head.

"You can tell them what you will, Amy dearest. It doesn't worry me." She nods primly though the three of them have moved off and Laurie considers what a strange collective they make, moving about the room to the tables and chairs by the grand windows.

All that light will make his head ache for hours.

He watches as he seats himself opposite the couple. Fred's hand does not leave Amy's arm until she has been tucked safely close to the table, her dress arranged properly and her parasol's handle has completely left her hand. The Englishman stands there a second longer and that is when his eyes truly meet Laurie's.

It takes his breath away, just for a moment.

Everything lies there. The Mistake. The lies Fred undoubtedly tells his blushing new bride, the lingering hope, the sorry dismissal. Laurie sees it all until it is almost unbearable but only five heart beats have passed and Fred takes his place beside Amy, his hand returning to her hand on the table.

What a tidy picture they present. Between Amy's fine curls and Fred's sharp moustache they are every inch the fashion plate. It is as though he has just looked up from a Sunday's read of a catalogue. Laurie shakes his head but neither is looking at him. No, they are far too pretty to be watching anyone but each other.

Laurie motions over the waiter and wonders how much wine would be enough to be written as 'inconsiderate' or 'dangerous' back to Mrs Vaughn's old home. The boy that comes over can be no older than he was when he left America last and Laurie takes the liberty of ordering for them all. Scotch for him, tea for Fred and lemonade for Amy. No one says anything.

The waiter leaves as quickly as he came and Laurie folds his hand over his stomach, leaning back in his chair. He is tall enough that it does not look entirely improper and Amy keeps her small smile and Fred's elbows find the arm of his chair.

"So how are things in Concord?"

Amy warms to the subject and he listens, faking idleness as he plays with the placement of his fork against the lace placemat setting before him.

"… And so Father is tutoring again until the school will find a place for him. I'm afraid Beth is not getting along so well."

He lifts his head at that and stills his hand. "She is unwell?"

Amy purses her lips and that is all she need say. Laurie returns his attention to the frilled edges of the lace and swallows. He has noticed Mrs Vaughn says nothing about _her_.

"Send my love to them, won't you?" It's an ashamedly naked moment for him but he can't hide the honest emotion in his voice and Amy nods quickly in return. He sees Fred's thumb brush absently back and forth over his wife's hand. It is not a nervous habit.

Laurie looks at them both again and thinks them converted. Converted to each other, to their mutual lifestyle of silly paintedness. Of screens and fans, parasols and smiles and every creature comfort their tired pale bodies could desire. It makes him sick, as sick as everything makes him. In a flash he imagines them rolling together, like marionettes in some smutty French play where a prostitute sticks out her tongue and another man makes rude gestures, the strings in their hands as pale sweaty bodies make nonsense beneath them to their tune.

It makes him sick.

Finally their beverages arrive and Laurie is quick to down his in one swallow. That, he knows, will make it back home. Amy tries valiantly to lower her eyebrows but Laurie has developed a talent for human observation since his self-indulgence grew into living.

He continues to think this little arranged meeting was not the wisest of decisions.

It is then he feels Fred's shoe bump against his. The man's brow is set and there is no telling if the movement was intentional or not.

"So, I don't believe I've congratulated you both in person yet."

Amy's cheeks colour as soon as he finishes and it is a very endearing gesture. Laurie is reminded she is still more of a girl than a woman and it makes something inside of him settle. That he should still recognise one March woman bears a lot of a good.

"Thank you, Laurie." Fred's voice is soft, but then he has never been the boy of Camp Laurence and cricket fields.

"Truly I think you make an excellent couple." He does not mean any malice by the sentence but it is not as clean as it should sound on paper and Amy looks at her lap. Laurie feels Fred's shoe against his own again and his eyes flick to the other man.

Amy says something but the Mistake is suddenly playing so vividly in his mind that all he notices is the way Fred's mouth remains that sensible frown. Laurie shifts his foot only and inch but it is enough. There is Fred's leg, strong and sure.

It's suddenly very plain to him how insulting it is that Fred should treat him with such distance. As though some faint slight-of-hand act, the press of their knees together, should accommodate for any feelings he might have. Yes, he used Fred but Laurie knows for damn sure he was being used that night too. It was as plain as the empty bottles around his apartment.

He knows it would be the same with or without Amy. Fred was and is ashamed and he will probably die that way.

Laurie was sorry that it happened. There was no use in lying about that, but _shame_… No. He only believed there was one being in the universe that was capable of making him feel such a way and there was an ocean lying between them.

He kicks Fred in the shin and motions to the waiter for another drink.

The Englishman whispers something to his wife, his lips somewhere between their shoulders where it is still polite for company and public and Laurie thinks, no doubt as close as they get in private quarters anyway. Amy nods and he watches as so much of their language is coded.

Maybe there is more between them than he had allowed.

"I'm so sorry Laurie, but we must go." But then, he knows Fred. "You see, there is another appointment I forgot about. Dear Fred just reminded me, we are due at his mother's within an hour." Amy explains as her husband stands to help her out of the chair. It isn't so much for inability or wifely deference as it is polite and necessary. It suits Amy.

"I wish we had more time," he says needlessly, waving the hand he had tucked under his chin airily. It couldn't hurt to seem insincere now.

"Perhaps we will see you at the Society Ball next month?" Amy takes her husband's arm and Laurie feels Fred's stare. He looks up at them both, his legs crossed lazily, his hat jaunted and he dares a careless smile.

"No, I think not."

"Sometime after, then?" Patient as ever, Amy remains unmoved by his half-performance.

"No. I think Paris is calling me."

"Perhaps we shall see you there." Fred speaks and Laurie feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. Vaughn bows sharply before turning his lady in a neat circle and they leave together.

Laurie's drink arrives and the tall man buries himself in it. "Bye then," he whispers over the glass rim.


End file.
